Wood's Revenge

by Steven Becker

  “Sugar, huh?”

  Her patience was thin. “Come on, give me something.”

  “Well, there’s that she-devil—name’s Jane. Drive’s a bitchin’ fast car. Don’t know much more than that.”

  She kept him on the line while her fingers flew across the keyboard. There were only a handful of sugar companies left operating out of the Clewiston area, and she went into the database of the Social Security office and scanned their payrolls. She found a Jane with a six-figure income at one and checked her W-4 information. “How old was she?”

  “Evil don’t wear age,” he said.

  “Thirty-eight sound right?” she asked.

  “That’d be about right. So, can you help me out of here?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Just make sure I get a doggie bag.”

  29

  Mac heard the phone and dropped to an idle before answering.

  “Tru’s all right. He’s in the hospital in Homestead,” Alicia said.

  That was the first good news he had heard in days. “Good work. I’m sure he’s enjoying the hospitality.”

  “That’s our boy. He was actually helpful and gave me a name who I connected to Philip Dusharde.”

  “The sugar guy?” Mac paused. “And Clewiston. Sounds like we’re on the right track.”

  “I’ve got an address where he lives. I looked on Google Earth, and it’s a large compound. The rear property line is a canal. You can drive right to his back door.”

  She gave him directions; he disconnected and accelerated. The route was straightforward. Used for irrigation water as well as drainage, the canals were better maintained here than farther south. They were wide and free of obstructions and weeds. Now that he had a destination and a clear route, he pushed the speed to twenty knots.

  At this speed he had an hour run ahead of him and he settled in, watching the landscape as he sped through the canals. Cruising through the acres of planted fields he caught several strange looks from workers and equipment operators surprised to see this large a boat here. Doubting they would raise an alarm, he waved back and kept on going.

  It was afternoon when he arrived. The trip had taken several calls to Alicia and a few changes in route, but he was sure he was in the right place. With the shotgun in one hand, he waded to the berm with a dock line in the other and climbed the five-foot berm to level ground. After tying the boat to a small tree, he studied the property. The landscape was very different from what he had seen all day. Dusharde had spared no expense in making it appear to have been transported from Palm Beach. Man-made contours gave the native terrain an undulating appearance like a well-crafted golf course.

  Moving forward carefully, using the landscape to conceal himself, he walked toward the roofline of the house just visible over the rise ahead. As he moved, the flora gradually changed from native trees and brush to carefully installed plantings, many in rock outcroppings. He appraised the house, now in full view. It looked like the clubhouse for a country club, with the main floor stretching for what looked like a football field and a second story about half the size. Red clay tiles capped the steep angular pitches of the roof. Even from this distance it looked like money.

  He slowed down when he heard dogs barking and realized they were coming toward him. Hopefully they weren’t trained guard dogs and barked at anything that moved. Otherwise he was in trouble. Backing up, he used the cover of a cluster of scrubby-looking oaks and climbed a few feet into the largest. From this vantage point, he could see a low fence running around the property, carefully disguised to blend in with the landscape. The dogs were running along it on the other side. They looked like they were playing.

  They still created a problem, even if they were friendly. He waited several minutes to make sure they had not attracted any attention and climbed down. Moving to the fence, he kicked at the brush and held his hands out, waiting for them to find him. It only took a few minutes for them to come running, barking and nipping at each other. He crouched down and extended his hands through the fence, hoping his instincts were right.

  The lead dog bounded up and barked viciously, but he knew better than to flinch. Slowly, he saw the hair on its back fold back down and the tail start to wag as it moved toward him. The other dog was by its side now and together they approached the fence. With one dog licking each hand, he relaxed and let them get used to him. Sensing they were becoming bored, he scaled the low fence and with his new companions headed toward the house.

  The sun was still high when he reached the low stone wall separating the groomed backyard from the back forty. On his belly, he crawled toward the barrier and raised his head just enough to see over it. A large pond was in front of him, and it took a few minutes for him to realize it was actually a pool. Off to the side was a detached garage, built to look like a smaller version of the house and connected with a covered walkway. He turned back to the house and saw a large covered patio, and, underneath it, he froze when he saw Mel and Pamela tied up back to back in two chairs.

  Relief spread over him, knowing they were still alive. After that passed, his first reaction was to jump the wall and rescue them, but he held himself in check, knowing that would be foolhardy. Even if no one was watching, the dogs would be alerted by the activity and cause a commotion. His thoughts were interrupted by a burning on his chest.

  The pain was indescribable, and he knew immediately he was lying on a nest of fire ants. The brutal insects, common throughout the South, were biting him repeatedly, causing his chest to feel like he was on fire. He rolled over and brushed himself off, only confirming what he already knew. On the ground below him the ants swarmed out of two concealed dens. Tearing the T-shirt off, he flung the ants from his chest. The stinging faded, but he knew he was in worse trouble than the pain when he felt his throat start to swell.

  He needed to get back to the boat and took off running through the brush, not caring if he was seen. When he reached the fence, he collapsed and fell to the ground.

  Mac felt something wet and rough scratch his face and opened his swollen eyes to see the two dogs hovering tentatively over him. He took a minute to get his bearings, rolled onto his back and sat up. The burning on his stomach was intense, and he almost lay back down in the dew-covered grass to soothe the pain, but thinking about Mel and Pamela and the hours that he had lost got him to his feet. The high clouds diffused the light from the three-quarters full waning moon, throwing a medieval cast over the landscape. He had been out for hours.

  Climbing over the fence, he accidentally rubbed against the exposed wire on top of the chain-link and growled in pain as it scraped across the bites. He felt a liquid oozing down his stomach, but there was no point stopping until he reached the boat. Fighting off the nausea and lightheadedness that came from his reaction to the fire ants, he struggled across the last hundred yards. Reaching the berm, he slid down into the water and waded to the boat.

  Once aboard, he found the first aid kit and silently thanked TJ for keeping it stocked. Being a dive boat, it had antihistamines and sting ointments for treating the myriad of underwater maladies that assaulted the unprotected skin of divers. He took several Benadryl and stood on the dive platform, where he used the wash-down hose and some baby shampoo, which the divers used as an inexpensive anti-fog, to clean the swollen bites.

  Slowly the burning dissipated, and he climbed back aboard. Fortunately there was a supply of dive-shop shirts in the cabin. He grabbed another and dressed. Another look in the first aid kit revealed some antibacterial ointment. He took it and used the entire sample-sized tube to cover the bites. Feeling better, he took several large gulps from a gallon-sized jug of water he had found and started assembling anything that might prove useful to rescue Mel and Pamela.

  When the sun went down, Dusharde and Jane moved the women into the living room. First the killing of Wade and now Jane’s plan to dispose of the women’s bodies had made him anxious. Neglecting his ritual, he had taken the whiskey straigh
t, and he was finally starting to calm down. Now he stood with a glass in his hand looking at Jane over the kitchen counter, wondering how she could be cooking a meal when the walls of his empire were crumbling around him.

  Even the dogs had seemed out of sorts, running along the fence all day, barking at some unknown danger that was probably just a raccoon. He had sent Manny to have a look, but he had reported nothing unusual.

  “Can’t we do this tonight?” Philip asked Jane.

  She continued to slice the frozen chicken breasts into cubes. “You could use some real food around here. Everything is frozen and processed.”

  He walked over and grasped the hand that held the knife. At first she didn’t struggle, but he increased the pressure and she fought back. For a brief second she panicked and then gave into his superior strength.

  A look of fear crossed her face and he released her. He had already killed once, and he would do it again. The emotions were unique, and he realized he needed to step back and take the ten-thousand foot view instead of becoming emotionally involved. He had people for that. “Why not now?” he asked again.

  She didn’t hesitate this time. “If an environmental group were going to blow up the rocket to open the flow of water, would they do it at night, or make it a media spectacle and blow it during the day?”

  Her answer made sense and he relaxed. It would be a long night, but better to spend it here than sitting in an abandoned warehouse being eaten alive by whatever critters cruised the Everglades at night. With his back to the two women, he sat at a barstool and watched her finish dinner. Surprised by his appetite, he finished the plate she set in front of him.

  Turning to the two women, he wondered if he ought to feed them or at least get them water, but decided to leave it to Jane. He would make sure she left in the morning, and he’d monitor things from his boat off Palm Beach. There was no need to get his hands dirtier than they were.

  “I’m going to need your help tomorrow,” she said.

  It was like she could read his mind. “What about Manny?”

  “I sent him home and told him to get his wife to take him to the hospital. He almost passed out getting your congressman in the car.”

  Philip had wondered who had cleaned up the mess in the study. “Don’t you have anyone else?”

  “Not that I can count on like you.”

  He sat back and gulped the remainder of the whiskey. Now that the plan was almost complete, he wondered if he would have the stomach to see it through on a personal level. Watching the news from the salon on his eighty-foot convertible would have been more comfortable.

  “You shot a man last night. Blowing things up is child’s play compared to that.”

  30

  Mac looked at the horizon and noticed the sky was just starting to lighten, and he knew he needed to move. Losing the cover of darkness would be a mistake. Slowly he crouched and took one last look before he slid away from the bushes and found the narrow path he had used yesterday. This far from the house he was more alert for the gators, deer, and pigs that lived in the backwoods than for man. Carefully he moved toward the house with the shotgun in one hand and the fillet knife in the other.

  He reached the fence separating the natural environment and the landscaped yard. It was still a good distance from the house, and he remembered how skillfully the two worlds had been blended together. He stopped every few feet to watch and listen, but there was no sign of activity. The dogs must be in for the night. The path turned from dirt to mulch, then to gravel, and finally flagstone as he approached the back of the pool.

  Skirting the boulder-strewn perimeter, he thought he heard movement around the front and stopped. A car door slammed, then another. He had to move fast now; the time for stealth had passed. He ran across the yard and reached the back of the house. With his back against the building he caught his breath and slid across the rough, stuccoed exterior toward a window several feet from the corner. A table lamp illuminated the room. He could see it was an office and looked in, his eyes scanning the room’s built-in bookshelves and rich furniture before settling on the pool of blood on the hardwood floor. Even through the double-pane glass, he could see it was still wet.

  Thinking the worst, and not worried about being seen or heard, he moved to the side of the house as fast as he could. He reached the corner and slowly poked his head around. Mixed emotions flooded through him. He was at once relieved and enraged.

  Jane shoved a bound and gagged Mel into the back of a Mercedes sedan. Faster than Mac could have done anything to stop her, she reached around her back, pulled the pistol from her waistband, and smacked Mel on the temple. Mac fought the urge to go after her and waited. He cradled the shotgun in his arms, but the women were too close together to use it. The shells contained buckshot. From what he estimated to be twenty-five yards away, they could still pack a punch, but the spread could easily hit Mel. He might as well have been unarmed.

  Jane moved away from the car, and he thought he might have an opening. He had to move back when she crossed the walk in front of him and went to the door. The second she was out of sight, he started to make a move toward the car but froze when he saw Jane pulling another figure from the house back toward the car. There was a pillowcase over her head, but he could immediately tell it was Pamela. Dusharde followed the pair and went around to the passenger seat. Fortunately for Mac, she was fighting back, giving him just enough time to retreat before being seen.

  Back behind the house, with the knowledge that both women were alive, he could do nothing but watch from a distance as Jane shoved the taller woman into the back next to Mel, knocking her unconscious as well. It was apparent she was leaving. He looked across the covered walkway to the garage, where a sports car sat in the driveway. But before he could reach it, he heard the engine start and saw the running lights of the Mercedes recede into the darkness.

  He ran to the Audi. It was locked. From where he stood he could see the sedan reach the end of the long driveway and turn right onto the road. At least he knew what direction she was headed, but his hopes sank as she accelerated and, even from this distance, he could hear the turbo booster kick in and the car sped away.

  Head down, he went into the main house and after a quick search found the keys on the kitchen counter. He fumbled with the electronic lock, wasting valuable seconds trying to unlock the door. Finally allowed access, he tossed the shotgun in the passenger seat and squeezed into the luxurious cockpit. He found the starter button. Within seconds, he was following the Mercedes. He accelerated and watched the needle move north of eighty mph. Traveling mostly by boat, he couldn’t remember the last time he had gone this fast, but the luxurious car made him feel like he was going twenty.

  In the distance he saw the taillights of the other car. Jane was moving much slower, probably staying to the speed limit, not wanting to risk being pulled over with Mel and Pamela in the back. He followed suit, careful to match her speed. She had no idea he was there, and he intended to keep it that way. There was nothing he could do except follow and formulate a plan for when they got there. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out where they were going.

  Mac felt out of place driving the Audi. He looked at the buttons, reluctant to touch them in case there was a mechanism built into the fancy electronics for the car to eject him through the smoked sunroof. Even after his cleanup attempt, the layer of grime between his skin and the soft leather felt abrasive. On the brighter side, it had appeared the medicine was working, reducing the pain and swelling from the bites to a manageable level.

  It was no surprise when they turned off Highway 27 and took the Florida Turnpike south. The closer they got to the Aerojet plant, the tighter the knot in his stomach became. Breathing deeply, he dropped back when they turned onto US 1 and then turned right at the sign for Everglades National Park. The traffic thinned to almost nothing, and he was forced to drop back further to stay out of sight. The road appeared flat but had slight elevation changes. Even the slig
htest uphill or downhill grade showed the road for miles ahead or behind them. He pulled onto the shoulder after turning left onto Aerojet Road. He wanted to give them some time to park and do whatever they had planned before he took action. With only the fillet knife, shotgun, and a handful of shells, he was underarmed and needed to plan accordingly.

  31

  Mac waited about five minutes before pulling back onto the road and entering the abandoned facility. When the plant came into sight, he stashed the Audi behind the first building he saw and took off on foot, almost stepping on a copperhead when he exited the car. Hoping the snake wasn’t a bad omen, he ran from building to building, with the shotgun in hand, using the decaying structures for cover.

  He reached the building where they had parked and, using the concrete wall to shield himself, he peered around the corner and saw the silo. There was no one in sight, and he ran across the open asphalt lot. Unseen, he reached the steel building that housed the rocket and moved to an opening on the side, away from the front, where he expected them to be. He waited a long minute for his eyes to adjust to the dim light inside.

  Dusharde and Jane stood looking over the lip of the silo, and at first he thought he was too late. They were in a heated discussion, and he used the creaking of the metal building’s panels that were expanding as they warmed in the sun to cover his movements. There was nothing to conceal him inside the building, so he stayed to the exterior and ran to the front, again using the door opening as cover.

  “They’ll find no traces of any of them?” Dusharde asked Jane.

  “Not once that rocket blows.”

  “All right. Let’s get it done.” Dusharde rubbed his hands on his expensive slacks. “Then I’m heading to the Bahamas until the dust settles. I’ve got the boat ready to go in Miami, and the log will show it left last night with both of us aboard.”